


rise if you're sleeping, stay awake

by blueinkedbones



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Allison Argent, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protectiveness, Stilinski Family Feels, hemiplegia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Derek isn't really contributing much to the conversation. And not in a less talk, more brood kind of way. The thing is, he's whimpering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Stiles notices is not the blood.

Which, wow, there's a lot of that, actually, and it's not that he hasn't noticed it, because he isn't totally freakin' blind, and even if he he had been, the smell is kind of a dead giveaway.

Aaaand that is a terrible choice of words. The point is, yeah, he notices the blood pooling around him, soaking into his shoes—which, by the way, is gonna be super awesome to explain to his dad—but that's not the first thing he notices, and that's the not thing he's kind of hopelessly fixating on right now.

The first thing he notices is the _sound_.

Because if anyone should be making a sound like that, it's him.

Okay, small side note: all that blood on his shoes? Is not really restricted to his shoes. It's more _everywhere_ , actually, except where it should be, namely, his insides.

So, yeah, he's a little bit out of it. A little bit ramble-y. A little bit less focused than, say, Scott, who is swearing through Derek's shiny new disposable cell phone.

The thing is, Derek isn't really contributing much to the conversation. And not in a less talk, more brood kind of way.

The thing is, he's whimpering.

_Dude, you're not the guy who got cut up by Kate Argent's psycho hunter boyfriend, so, get your shit together—_

—is what he would say, if he was a complete asshole. Which he kinda has a right to be, seeing as he's kind of, maybe, dying. He's not totally oblivious. It's a lot of blood, and it's on the wrong side of him, and Scott is shouting " _Answer me, motherfucker! Where are you? Where is he?_ " through the phone, and Derek is holding the phone, and his hands are shaking, and he's shaking, and there's a thin, trembling, high pitched whine where his growl should be, where words should be.

And _fuck_ , it is freaking Stiles out more than the whole near-death situation. Which is freaking him out plenty. Because Stiles really, really doesn't want to die. He's a virgin, for god's sakes. He's sixteen. He has like four episodes of _Supernatural_ waiting for him on his TiVo.

And he's pretty sure his dad still hasn't figured out how to make salad happen, and if he's alone—

Stiles swallows a sudden lump in his throat. Swiping at his eyes with the driest part of his sleeve, he tries to remember how words work. He manages to force out directions and some bleary exposition before everything goes dark.

 

**> >>**

 

"She was doin' her job," the hunter growled, eyes glittering with unshed tears as he traced Stiles' spine with his Bowie knife . "She was cleanin' up the world's messes. She was a good hunter."

"She George Foreman Grill-ed eleven people alive," Stiles snapped back, trying not to shake in the vicinity of really, really sharp pointy things. "Maybe you should rethink your definition of 'good.'"

"Eleven monsters!" the man said hysterically, running the knife along Stiles' ribs. "She made the world safer!"

"They lived in a house," Stiles said, remarkably not shitting himself. "They went to school. Laura was my babysitter, okay, when my mom—" The knife lunged closer. "Whoa, whoa, easy!" Stiles eyes met the hunter's. "What's the goal here, huh? Revenge? 'Cause then you're barking up the wrong tree. Peter's dead, and Derek'll probably thank you for shutting me up."

"Derek." The hunter spat. Literally. He gathered a gob of saliva in his mouth and spat it at Stiles.

"Dude, _gross_!"

"You're gonna tell me where he is—No. You're gonna bring him here. Or I'm gonna cut you open, hang you with a noose of your own intestines, and set you on fire."

"Oh my god." Stiles' voice sped up into a frantic babble. "Look, he's not gonna come for me. The guy hates me, okay? I got him arrested for murder. _Twice_. He's not coming over to bake me cookies, no matter how nice I ask. So… so you can just let me go, right, no hard feelings—"

"Shut up," the hunter hissed, pressing a cell phone into Stiles' hand, "and get him over here."

"Okay, okay!" Stiles stared down at the phone. "Uhhh… how?"

"I don't give a goddamn fuck how you get that bastard over here!" The knife slashed into Stiles's hip. He bit back a scream. "But if I don't have a werewolf to carve in the next thirty minutes, I'm gonna settle for the next best thing."

"A defenseless, fragile human?" Stiles suggested, cupping his palms over the wound and trying to ignore the warm blood trickling down his thigh.

The hunter slammed a fist into Stiles' stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

The man scrubbed a palm over his eyes. "A traitor."

 

**> >>**

 

He's not dead when he wakes up. Score!

The whole hospital situation is less exciting. Stiles doesn't like hospitals. He doesn't have a lot of happy family memories involving big white rooms and flat white beds and tired white faces and enough wires and machines to reanimate Frankenstein's monster.

And the few he does have, well, that just makes it worse.

The pain's manageable, which is a refreshing change, and nothing seems completely out of commission based on a cursory glance. Okay. Now on to the hard part.

Right hand, check, all five digits fully posable, good bend at the elbow. Excellent.

Left hand, check, pain receptors clearly in perfect working order.

Right leg—

…Right leg—

"Oh my god."

He's talking to himself, that's perfectly healthy. A lot fucking healthier than his completely unresponsive limb.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_!

The heart monitor goes nuts.

On the floor beside him, a wolf whimpers.

 

**> >>**

 

"Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Derek," Stiles said into the phone, using all his brainpower to send _it's a trap!_ vibes to the werewolf. "Remember how you hate me and wish I was dead?" The hunter made a throat-slashing motion with one hand, flourishing the knife in the other.

"What are you talking about?" Without the mouthful of sharp teeth and the whole wolf thing going on, Derek's voice was actually kind of… not scary. Huh.

Or maybe he was just the lesser of two evils right now.

"Um, basically, there's a guy here who really wants to talk to you… about Kate."

" _What?_ " Derek hissed. Ah, back to scary.

"So if that sounds interesting, or if you wanna come watch me get stabbed in the face, that's, uh, that's the live entertainment going on right now."

The hunter snatched the phone from Stiles.

"Okay, you son of a bitch, this is how this is gonna work. You call for backup, you howl, you bring anyone with you, and I set the kid on fire. Don't try anything stupid. He's already looking pretty bad. Wouldn't want to risk him bleeding out before you get here."

"He's _human_!" Derek growled, sounding outraged. Actually, his voice was kind of nice in general. "You have a _code_!"

"He's defending you. I'd say that makes him dangerous." The hunter grinned. "But don't worry, I think I've got the threat neutralized."

He grabbed Stiles' arm and snapped it behind him, and yeah, there was definitely some girlish screaming involved.

"I'm going to kill you," Derek swore through the phone. Stiles managed a smirk through the pain. It was actually a freaking fantastic voice, and he could probably listen to it for the rest of his life.

Admittedly, the way things were going, that didn't seem like the longest stretch of time.

 

**> >>**

 

" _Stiles!_ "

Stiles' dad charges through the door, a nurse close behind him. For a moment Stiles imagines Lydia with him, frantic with worry and willing to do anything she can to make him feel better. _Anything_.

Then he remembers how he's basically a cripple now, and yeah, that's sure to be wonderful for his sex life.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna die a virgin," he says between shallow breaths.

"Stiles, what the hell happened last night?" His dad leans over him, and shit, those dark circles under his eyes put a lump in Stiles' throat again. He forces himself to swallow, to focus, to _breathe_.

After about a million years, his dad's palms come down on Stiles' shoulders, and the machine calms down, leaving Stiles with a question he has no idea how to answer.

"Iii—," he stammers instead, "I can't move my leg, Dad. I can't—"

The monitor beeps out a warning. Stiles takes a long, shaky breath.

"You're gonna be fine," his father says, and Stiles tries not to see the lie faltering. It's harsher the second time, practically an order. "You're gonna be _fine_." He gives his son's shoulders a supportive squeeze, and Stiles tries not to wince as his nerves scream under his father's fingers. "Dad," he says, and his father closes his eyes, opens them, and releases him.

Stiles' stomach twists.

The wolf curls in on itself, fur standing on end, gagging on the stench of guilt and shock and fear and worry where only Stiles' scent should be.

 

**> >>**

 

Derek never hung up the phone. After a few seconds, the hunter got tired of waiting and started without him.


	2. Chapter 2

A part of Mr. Stilinski—a very, very large part—wants nothing more than to sit with his son, to hear the heart monitor beep, to watch his chest rise and fall, to hear Stiles make one of his smart-ass comments and see his mouth tilt up in that stupid crooked grin and to know that they're okay, that he'll be okay, that everything will be fine.

But things are _not_ fine. Stiles is in a hospital bed, bruised and beaten and _cut open_ by some maniac he refuses to identify. He lost so much blood he went into shock. He was _unconscious_. The doctors say he could have died if Scott hadn't known to elevate his legs and apply pressure to the wounds. And Mr. Stilinski is grateful to the kid for that, more grateful than he can put into words.

But there's something Scott's not telling him, and it's the same thing Stiles isn't telling him, and these kids are mixed up in something bad, something that nearly got his son killed.

And he can't just sit in this room and tell his kid that things will be okay when he doesn't even know what he's dealing with.

"You're gonna tell me what the hell happened last night," he tells Scott when the boy pokes his head into Stiles' hospital room. He closes the door behind the two of them, keeping an eye on his son through the long glass window. Stiles is out again, and no wonder. He's on enough painkillers to put down a horse, and he still cringed at his father's hands around his shoulders. He's always been a bad liar—takes after his mother that way—and Mr. Stilinski saw right through his strong man act.

But Stiles _is_ strong. He's strong, and brave, and smart, and incredibly, impossibly, stupidly reckless, and all that can very well be the reason he ended up in this mess. Whatever this mess is.

"You are going to look me in the eye," Mr. Stilinski says, "and tell me why my son almost died last night. You're going to tell me every detail, no matter how insignificant you think it is. You're going to tell me these things not only because I am this town's Sheriff and can and will gladly arrest you for obstruction of justice in a kidnapping and attempted murder of a minor, but because Stiles' safety depends on it, and because if I catch the slightest whiff of bullshit from you, I will discharge my weapon."

Scott swallows hard. "I-I wish I could help," he says, eyes wide in that I'm-so-innocent look kids seem to think parents buy. He's as bad a liar as Stiles is. Where Stiles rambles, Scott stutters. "B-but I don't really know what happened. I only heard about it because Derek called me."

"Derek," Mr. Stilinski repeats. "Derek Hale? The man you accused of murder last year?"

Scott huffs out a small impatient breath. "I'm not saying he did it, I'm saying he knows what happened! I swear, I didn't see _any_ thing! I only got there in time to drive Stiles to the hospital!"

No stutter. He's not lying.

Mr. Stilinski sighs. Puts a palm on Scott's shoulder.

"The doctors say you're the reason my son is still alive," he says. "Thank you. I don't know what I would've—"

He could collapse right now, if he let himself collapse. He could let his knees give way and he could sob about that phone call, about the panic he'd felt, driving to the hospital as fast as he could and still too slow, about the pictures in his head, his son's face mixed in with the files on his desk, eyes wide open and flat and empty (he has his mother's eyes), eyes closed and lips flat and pressed together in pain (always stubborn, always something to prove, I'm fine, Dad, really, I'm _fine_ ), his son, his _son_. About how he's the goddamn sheriff and he can't even keep his own son safe. And about how he barreled into the hospital like a man on fire, and grabbed the lapels of the first man in white he spotted, and demanded to see his son, _Where the hell is my son?_ And seeing him on that stretcher, paler than pale, covered in blood and bruises, stinking of gasoline, eyes closed, limbs limp and too flexible under the medics' hands, how it took every bit of resolve and self control he had not to rush the responders, demand details, how he held back, rooted in place, let them work without distraction. He could collapse right now, he could have collapsed a thousand times since that phone call, his knees are screaming to, but he can't, he can't fall apart with his son hurt ("Stage four of shock," one doctor said gently. Stabbed him in the chest gently, cut off his fucking head gently. "That means he's lost more than forty percent of the blood in his body." He pulled up his sleeve in a second, in less than a second, held out his jumping pulse, his wide blue vein, and said _Take it, take it!_ ), with his son depending on him to be strong, or worse, depending on him to be weak, depending on having to be the strong one of the two of them. God knows Stiles has been the strong one of the two of them enough times, but right now, right now, John Andrew Stilinski is stepping the fuck up and being the goddamn strong one for his son.

"He's my best friend," Scott says. "If I knew anything that could help, I'd tell you in a second."

"How did Derek get your number?" Mr. Stilinski asks.

Scott's eyes widen; he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Uh," he says, "I gave it to him."

"You accused him of murder," Mr. Stilinski repeats. "Twice."

"I was an idiot," Scott says. "He's not a bad guy, I swear. He just has really bad luck."

"Uh huh," Mr. Stilinski says. "You talk to him often?"

"Just when something comes up," Scott says. "We don't really have a lot in common."

It almost sounds like Scott's making a joke, a deadpan comment with those innocent eyes wide, but Mr. Stilinski doesn't see the humor in the situation. He doesn't see the humor in anything. "You have any idea where I can reach him?"

 

>>>

 

By the time Derek reached the burned-out shell of his old house, by the time he followed the blood in the air, Stiles' blood in the air, the teenager was quiet.

Derek didn't recognize the hunter, but they had a tendency to blend into each other in their uniformity. The same short hair, close-shaved, the same scrape of stubble around their jaws, the same cold dead eyes of something too used to killing to give a damn about any code. The same oversized leather jacket, the same layers underneath: plaid over plaid over a dark t-shirt. The wardrobe choices were the one difference between the crazed loners and the blind daddy's boys. The loners had newer jackets, blacker t-shirts, an arrogant swagger. They were the predictable ones. The daddy's boys moved like soldiers, wore their father's clothes, drove his car, listened to his music. They were harder and deader inside, closer to cracking entirely. They hunted if they breathed; they didn't hesitate. They were the dangerous ones.

This one was a dangerous one, and he was grieving. A grieving hunter is a rabid dog with a machine gun.

This one didn't use a gun. He wore a Bowie knife like an extension of his hand, and he leaned over Stiles and traced his jaw very carefully, not disturbing a short light hair on the teenager's skin. The warning was wordless, obvious; any sudden moves, any attempt at intervention, rescue, attack, and the hunter's hand would slip slightly, and the boy would be dead. Already, he was losing blood, already, his heart was slowing. But Derek saw the warning, and he stood still in the doorway, and he held his wolf down.

"I'm here," he said, and he forced his voice calm and even. "You've got me. You don't need him anymore."

Stiles moaned a warning, and it sounded like _I'm a lost cause, get out of here!_ He smelled like resignation and stubbornness and blood and gasoline.

Gasoline.

"Don't," Derek said, not entirely sure which of the two he was addressing. Stacked against the one stable wall was a pyramid of red plastic cans. "I'm here. I'm here and I'm not leaving." He kept his wolf down and said, "The kid's got nothing to do with this."

Stiles actually threw up a feeble middle finger at that, but it was true. This was Derek's mess. Derek could handle whatever the hunter wanted to do to him. He couldn't handle someone else hurt, someone else dying for his mistakes.

"He's got everythin' to do with this," the hunter said, carving ribbons in the air around Stiles' throat. His voice was deep, strong, but unsteady. He was maybe thirty, still wearing his father's clothes. He was done growing, and that oversized brown leather jacket was a second skin. "You took something of mine. Somethin' I cared about. I haven't cared about a lot of things in a long time, but I cared about her."

Derek weighed potential responses, wondered if sarcasm would be enough to make the hunter lunge, tip his hand. He didn't have a plan. He didn't have anything.

He didn't say anything. Stiles' throat was reflected in the curved blade. His slowing heartbeat pumped in Derek's ears.

He didn't say anything, and he bit back his wolf, until he was swallowing his own blood, and it retreated.

He didn't say anything, and the hunter said, "You took somethin' I cared about. You took the last fuckin' thing I cared about."

 _She was never yours_ , Derek thought, and he didn't say anything. _She was never anyone's._

"So believe me, you son of a bitch," the hunter said, tears shining in his green eyes, "when I tell you I will burn down everything you care about."

"I don't care about anything." Derek said. Stiles' heart sped up slightly.

"Yeah, maybe you think so," the hunter said, a tear spilling down his cheek as he scraped the air around Stiles' clavicle, "but you came here, and you get eyes like a kicked puppy every time I twitch my knife his way. And he cares about you, _Derek_. How many times has he saved your hairy werewolf ass? Word gets round in small towns." His mouth twitched into a bad mockery of a smile. " _The boy who runs with wolves_."

"You gonna finish your monologue anytime soon?" Derek asked. "Because I'm getting bored."

"Thinking at least I'll put him out of his misery?" The hunter's smirk flattened to a bitter grimace. "There's not a lot of things I still enjoy these days," he said, "but there's always been one thing I could count on." His eyes glittered, but he was finished crying.

"Masturbation?" Derek said. Stiles' humor was clearly affecting his life. The hunter's lips twisted in irritation.

"A good hunt," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

"I was named after a girl," Genim Stilinski said for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Dela let out the small sigh her husband had come to identify over the years as Genim #6, or _Genim, I've already said my piece, and now you're being intentionally obtuse and melodramatic, but I will suffer though this more-or-less pointless repetition, because you are generally wonderful, and I love you_ , and said, again, "You were named after your grandfather, who was named after his great-grandmother."

"Who was a girl," Genim countered. "You named me after a girl. Genim's a girl's name. I have a girl's name. Why do I have a girl's name, Mom?"

"It was your grandfather's name," Dela repeated. "He was a great man. I could tell you stories—"

"Yeah, I bet having a girl's name really builds character," Genim said. "If you, you know, survive junior high. _Genim_ ," he moaned, flopping onto the couch and covering his face dramatically. "They'll call me _Jenny_. Oh my god, I'm gonna die in there. They're not some fourth grade idiots, Mom. They're gonna know how to Google. Oh, I am so dead. I'm still gonna be trapped in a locker when Jackson Whittemore graduates. And you know he'll get at least a few extra years once they realize Danny feeds him all his homework."

"You'll be fine, son," John Stilinski— _Sheriff_ John Stilinski—cut in. "Anyone gives you any trouble, you just tell 'em—"

"I'm not gonna say you're the _sheriff_ , Dad," Genim rolled his eyes. "The whole 'my dad can beat up your dad' thing doesn't really have a huge impact on anyone out of kindergarten."

"Okay, smart guy," Sheriff Stilinski said, giving in on that point. "Fair enough. But you'll be fine. Just... find a friend. Someone—"

"Like me? Gee, Dad, if I see any other short-bus kids—"

"That's not what I meant."

"We can share Adderall!" Genim gesticulated wildly, limbs quaquaversal and quivering. "You have nervous tics? _I_ have nervous tics! You're a freak of nature? _I'm—_ "

"That is not what your father meant," Mrs. Stilinski cut him off sharply. "And you're not a freak of—you're not anything. You're perfect."

"Nothing more perfect than the spaz with a girl's name," Genim deadpanned.

"Your grandfather was a—" Mrs. Stilinski stopped. "You'll understand when you're older."

"I'm ten," Genim said. "How old do I have to be?"

"Older," Mrs. Stilinski repeated. "You'll be great at school. You always are."

"That's why you're skipping two grades," Sheriff Stilinski said proudly. "But if you're not sure that you're ready—"

"We can talk to your principal. Ask if you can still register with the fifth grade class."

"No way," Genim said. "Are you kidding me? I'd be bored out of my mind."

 

>>

 

Stiles is bored out of his mind.

There aren't a ton of things to do in a hospital to begin with. Add a paralyzed leg, and the stream of options just gets thinner and thinner. Right now he figures it's down to bugging the nurse for more Jell-O and playing for the Guinness World Record in Fastest Channel Flipping With Your Good Hand While Sulking About How Your Best Friend Doesn't Seem To Care That You're Stuck In The Hospital And, Oh Yeah, Almost Died Last Night In Some Kind Of Hunter/Werewolf Power-play Bullshit You Have To Lie To Your Dad About Again So He Doesn't Go Get Himself Killed, So Instead He's Flying Blind, Which Is Not Even A Little Bit Comforting, And By The Way, Have I Mentioned The Paralyzed Leg. Yeah, it's an obscure category. Little too specific, that's probably where they went wrong. No one really ever fit all the criteria 'till now. He's a shoo-in.

Go him.

Oh, and Derek Hale's hanging out, all broody and silent in wolf form. Just curled by his bed. Either that's Derek or he's on a fucking lot of painkillers, and he's on a fucking lot of painkillers.

Still. He's pretty sure, and there's nothing good on TV.

"Not that I don't love the whole big-black-wolf-in-the-hospital-room thing, 'cuz really, I do, but dude. That's gonna be really freaking hard to explain to security."

The wolf uncurls, takes off. Awesome. Well, what did he expect? Can't just have a wolf being all wolfy in public places. Makes people a little nervous, y'know. What with the fur, and the claws, and the teeth.

He does another round of his Guinness category, beating his original time, probably. There's something else he'd rather be beating, actually, but privacy is kind of nonexistent here, and he doesn't even wanna think about some poor nurse running in to check on the heart monitor going nuts and getting blinded by—

Yeah, not happening.

So. No alone time, nothing good on TV. Dad's out somewhere, probably sticking his neck into some supernatural bullshit that's gonna get him killed. And Stiles is stuck in this stupid hospital bed with his stupid fucking useless leg and no one is fucking showing up to visit him and even fucking Derek Hale just called shift change and Stiles can't even—

Frustrated is an understatement. Understatement is an understatement. There is no overstatement for how pissed off and useless Stiles is feeling right now.

And then Derek's back, dressed in scrubs, fully human. He sits down next to Stiles, all silent broody werewolf, just sitting there and staring at middle distance, tensed and coiled tight as a spring with a stick up its ass. Which pisses Stiles off, because, "Dude. The place is gloomy enough without your 'moments-from-a-murder-spree' face on."

But when Stiles says that, Derek looks right at him, and the tension is still right there, but... something's different. It's like all that broody wolfy-ness, it's not directed at him. It's directed at _everything else_.

His heart kinda speeds up, and the monitor starts freaking out, and Derek's eyes go wider than the tires on Stiles' Jeep, but he doesn't say anything, and actually, Stiles isn't totally sure he _can_.

"It's fine," Stiles says, "I'm fine. Except this freaking useless leg, but that's—" and he's trying to calm Derek Hale down, because Derek Hale is—is worried about him, maybe? Derek _Hale_. "That's totally a good thing. Chicks dig battle scars, right?" Yeah, maybe, but this isn't some bad-ass-looking, skin-deep mark of bravery. This is a fucking paralyzed limb, he knows that. The doctor explained it finer than fine. _Brown-Séquard Syndrome, also called Brown-Séquard's hemiplegia._ He's lucky, the doctor said. It could've been both legs, he said. It could've been permanent, he said. With this particular injury, there's a very real possibility of a full recovery of movement, he said. With a strong physical therapy program and a lot of hard work, Stiles could be back on his feet in as little as two years, he said. _Oh, thanks, doc. Two years, that's real good news. Lucky me. Assuming I live that long_. _Which, considering my luck with two good legs? My chances aren't looking so great._ "Yeah, definitely. I am gonna be beating offers away with a stick. Not literally, that wouldn't be cool. Domestic violence isn't cool, boys and girls. Just—this is gonna open up doors for me. Sympathy doors. All kinds of sexy sympathy doors. Um. This is getting weird. Actually, this was weird like five sentences ago."

Derek doesn't say anything, but he kind of—unknots, somehow. Relaxes, almost, as much as Derek Hale has ever relaxed. He's still doing the tall, dark, and broody thing, but Stiles can handle that. Stiles can talk enough for the two of them.

 

>>

 

Based on the teacher's reports and his near-flawless grades, the kid was bored out of his mind. Mr. Stilinski knew his son was bright, knew he could be great if he applied himself. Apparently, he could be great even if he didn't. He'd gone into school with a nickname, "Stiles," and somehow got it to stick, which his father found pretty damn impressive. His own attempts of getting "The Wolf" to catch on for a brief period in college were met by blank stares or thigh-slapping laughter.

The year stretched on with minimal incident. At the station, things were as stale as week-old toast. Beacon Hills didn't have much of a crime rate to begin with, but now it bottomed out completely. Budget cuts were sure to come, and the Sheriff didn't want to see any of his men and women lose their jobs over a dry spell. Besides, he had an itch, an antsy little crawl of intuition. Something wasn't right. It was too quiet. It felt like the calm before the storm.

The shit hit the fan all at once.

The Hale house caught fire on an otherwise uneventful Monday. Some mayo from his chicken salad sandwich oiled a corner of the crossword puzzle the sheriff was failing to solve. His son, he thought, grabbing a tissue from the top left drawer of his desk, could probably whiz through this and a Rubik's cube before his old man snapped his fingers and realized that seven down, thirteen letters, holier-than-thou, could only be _sanctimonious_ —

The sound of sirens filled the air, screeching like dying animals. The sheriff dropped the napkin, grabbed his gun.

Eleven people got caught in that fire. Ten were dead. One was dying. Two kids, teenagers, ( _Not much older than Stiles_ , John thought) had missed the excitement. School prom. Now they stood wide-eyed and shell-shocked, staring up at the mess of smoke and ash and splintered wood where their house used to be. EMTs draped blankets around their shoulders. The boy, Derek, twitched away from the contact.

Sheriff Stilinski didn't know much about Derek Hale. He was a middle kid of seven, kept out of trouble. There had never been a reason to take notice. Laura, the other kid, he knew. She'd watched Stiles when Dela had to be taken to appointments. Fourteen-year-old Laura Hale had interviewed Dela for some school project, and when looking for a babysitter, she was Dela's first choice. Good student, conscientious, quick. She'd reminded him of Stiles, the way she never stopped talking: there was no space between this thought and that one; she rocketed from point to point like a girl on fire. Like a—goddamn, he needed a new fuckin' metaphor.

Sitting in his office, brother by her side, she was finally quiet. It was disturbing, Laura Hale being quiet. Went against the laws of nature. The thought of Stiles going quiet like that knotted the sheriff's stomach so tight he could taste vomit in the back of his throat.

"Peter," Derek said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick and raw and thin and hollow and shaking and forced still. The kid stared Mr. Stilinski directly in the eyes, his own wide and green-blue and desperate. Something about this goddamn nightmare was turning the sheriff into a poet. "Is he—how is he?"

Peter Hale. The third survivor. Badly burned, unconscious. No one had much hope for his chances.

"He's alive," the sheriff said, because it wasn't a lie, and because he needed to give these kids something, even empty hope, and because his standard reassurance, _You're going to be fine,_ wouldn't come together. He was the goddamn sheriff. There was procedure. There was—Ah, fuck it, nothing could've prepared for something like this.

Derek nodded, dipped his head. He knew what that meant. His shoulders quaked, and when his sister placed a careful hand on his back, he flinched.

"Don't," he barked, his voice unexpectedly harsh. "Don't," he said again, softer this time. "Don't touch me. _Please_ —" His voice shook, went high, and cut off abruptly.

"Is there something you wanna tell me, Derek?" Sheriff Stilinski asked carefully, like feeling for the edge in a roll of tape. He didn't like this. He didn't like any of this—ten people dead in one go, one dying, two helpless kids left to pick up the pieces- but there was a new dread sliding through him now. God knew he was rusty on procedure in these types of cases- if it _was_ this type of case-

Laura's hands found each other in her lap, and Mr. Stilinski was overcome with an intense urge to run home and hug his wife and son.

"Thirsty?" he asked, staying put. "We've got some soda in the fridge, and milk. Maybe a couple Yoo-Hoos." He kept the chocolate drinks for when Stiles visited. Soda made him hyper, and the milk went to making the shit coffee the place ran on.

Laura accepted water. Derek didn't answer. After a short pause, Laura called in an order of a Yoo-Hoo for him.

"I don't want—" Derek started, but quickly sunk his head again, eyes bright.

When the sheriff came back, arms full of refreshments, Derek was sobbing, crushed against his sister's shoulder. Laura didn't make a move as the Sheriff placed the contents of the station's fridge on the desk in front of her and sat down. She acknowledged him with a slight nod, a muttered appreciation, and held on to her brother, and didn't cry.

She said, "What happens now?"

 

>>

 

Turns out no one in town knows a damn thing about Derek Hale. Oh, they know the fire, and the dead sister, and the crazy Argent girl, and some vague notions about animal attacks. They know he's been a murder suspect; a couple figure he still should be. There's always a few idiots spinning wild conspiracy theories, and today, the Sheriff hits the fucking jackpot.

Werewolves, for Christ's sake. _Werewolves_.

But no one knows anything fucking useful. Hobbies. Job. Friends, does he even have any friends? Family's a dead end, dead being a little too literal for the sheriff to stomach. It's been almost seven years, but that smell of smoke hasn't faded, those people didn't get up again, that file didn't get any lighter, that house wasn't knocked down and—

The house.

You'd have to be some kind of sick masochist to hang out in that burned-out shell of a safety hazard. The sheriff has Derek Hale pegged as a masochist. Those eyes, the way he flinched away from the EMTs, from his sister—

After Dela's death, Stiles'd been the same way. Too quiet, too quick to lie and say he was fine, too quick to blame himself. There was nothing Stiles could've done, John knew that, but he didn't know how to say it, and he didn't need to be giving the kid ideas if he was wrong.

Derek blamed himself. And he'd be just the kind of idiot who comes back home to throw his own hell in his face.

He'd be just the kind of idiot who goes back to his safety hazard of a hellhole and gets hell thrown on him all over again. Maybe he started it this time. Maybe Scott McCall got sucked into some old Hale bullshit, and Stiles followed him because Stiles has always followed him. The kid's too damn loyal, too damn brave, too damn invested in being stupid with his safety for other peoples' sakes.

Maybe Derek Hale's bad luck spilled over onto two stupid, reckless kids just trying to help.

 

>>

 

Peter Hale held on, unconscious and unchanging, and the sheriff thought about—tried not to think about—couldn't stop thinking about that whole family, just ashes, and two kids, and an uncle in a coma. This wasn't New York. This wasn't Florida. This wasn't a place where people could be crazy and not get noticed by somebody. This was Beacon Hill. This kind of shit didn't happen in Beacon Hill. People knew their neighbors. Nobody was on any kind of list. There were DUIs, speeding, running red lights. Some wild animals. Knocked down trash cans, missing iPods. Not fucking mass murder.

John analyzed the crime scene report like a born-again Christian with a shiny new Bible. It was definitely arson—the phone lines had been cut, the whole place doused with gasoline and lined with some white powder they'd sent two counties away to analyze. The fire started in the basement, and no one saw flames licking the nearby trees until it was too late. Ten people murdered, the sheriff thought, and went through their names:

Mrs. Alice Hale, 41, wife and mother, kindergarten teacher, member of Dela's weekly book club (They'd been reading _Pride and Prejudice_ , or they said they were, anyway. From what the sheriff had seen of it, it was actually six Beacon Hill wives unwinding over red wine and marital complaints and laughter. There was an empty seat on the couch and a mournful kind of silence at the meeting after the fire; no talk of mischievous children and humorously inept spouses. They talked about the fire, about Alice, about death. That night, Dela pressed John for details, suddenly filled with a need to _understand_. In John's experience, he said, in situations like this, logic wasn't a big feature. He gave his usual preamble about sharing cases, and then he let out a tired little chuckle and filled her in.); Dr. David Hale, Ph. D, 39, husband and father. He was a marriage counselor, wrote books full of anecdotes from his own family life. Nothing on the best-seller list, but he had his acclaim among the women of Beacon Hill. Twice a year he hosted a decently popular couples retreat in Monticello; Grace Hale, 27, sharp as a razor, eyes like forests. She'd fixed up the station computer when it went blue and unresponsive, had it running three times faster than it was the day John first used it. Wife of the comatose Peter Hale, mother of the deceased Jacob Hale, 10 (Stiles' age, the sheriff thought immediately, and had his first nightmare in years that night) and Mackenzie Hale, age 6 (Maybe, the sheriff thought, pushing away the crime scene photos of the Hale children's charred bodies and covering his eyes with a trembling hand, Peter Hale would be happier if he never woke up); Caleb Hale, 21, a TA at Beacon Hill College; Asher Hale, 19, the troublemaker of the cleaner-than-clean family with a couple of speeding tickets, played drums in a band called _The_ _Poisoned Skittles Attack_ , previously _Bite Me!_ , previously _Shut Up and Howl_ , previously _PSYCLES_ , previously _Disposable Heroes_ , previously _Broken Telegraph Says Go_ , previously...; Elijah Hale, 12, a quiet kid in Stiles' seventh-grade class; Aaron Hale, 9, shared his son's love of Batman; and Damon Hale, 8 months. _Eight_ _months old_. Murdered at eight months old.

The sheriff saw his son in each of the kids, his wife in the women, and shuddered, and grabbed them close, and narrowed his eyes searching for possible threats. He was the goddamn sheriff. If he couldn't keep his county safe, he swore, at least his own fucking family—

And then Dela got sick again.

 

>>

 

"There are things I need to tell you," she said, sitting half-upright on two pillows in her hospital bed. "Before I die. I'm not going to be able—"

"You're gonna be fine," John insisted. "We'll figure something out." He was lying, he knew he was lying, he knew it was over, but Stiles was a small thin statue behind him, and the kid didn't have to know. Not yet.

"I'm dying," Dela said, and Stiles stiffened, like someone'd pulled a cord that jerked the air out of his lungs. "There are things you need to know, Genim," Dela said, and the old name must've snapped the air back in place, because he came back, took a breath.

"Stiles," he corrected. She sighed, Genim #2, or _I don't have time for this._

"Stiles," she said wearily. "What is a _Stiles_? No meaning, no significance—"

"It's short for Stilinski," Stiles said.

"—no power," she continued. "A name, a person's real name, has power."

"The power to take you from the spazzy awkward new kid who thinks he's smarter than everyone else his age to the spazzy awkward new kid with a girl's name who thinks he's—"

"Enough. I'm running out of time."

Stiles stopped, and John was overtaken with how young his son looked. Too young to lose his mother.

Fuck, was there ever a good age?

"You can't die," the boy said quietly. Quieter than he'd ever been before. He was aging in front of John's eyes, Laura Hale all over again. His gold eyes looked into Dela's, reflected hers. Gold on gold. What was it about tragedy that made John go full of artistic distraction crap? "I'm—I'm ten, okay? I'm not older yet. You can't."

John closed his eyes.

 

>>

 

The night nurse found her frozen in a blank, gold stare.

It wasn't until later that week, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling over his bed with blurry eyes, that Stiles realized she'd said he'd understand when he was older, but she never said she'd be there to make him understand.

He had his first panic attack two minutes later.


	4. Chapter 4

Phone calls in the middle of the night are never a good thing.

Allison's got sixty horror stories flying through her mind before she even finds the receiver. _Dad clawed to death. Lydia chewed up and spit out. Scott choked with wolfsbane._

When the phone is pressed to her ear and her heartbeat is sharp and sledge-hammer loud, when Scott's okay, just losing his mind because it's _Stiles_ , just Stiles, she almost feels a sense of relief.

No, not almost. She is relieved.

Does that make her a bad person? Maybe it does. But you can't care for everyone. The few relationships she's managed to maintain after her mother killed herself are exhausting enough without adding a collage of acquaintances. There are already enough faces in her nightmares. There's more than enough blood without upping the death toll.

People around Allison get hurt. It's not her fault, but it's her responsibility. She's an Argent; the only female Argent left, now. She calls the shots. She's supposed to protect these people.

Emotions get in the way.

If she had seen clearly after her mother died, Gerard would never have been able to manipulate her. Emotions had her staring down at two kids through her rifle's sights and firing.

She thought, once, that her emotions, her innocence, would keep her from turning into Kate. But she had it all wrong. Kate was all emotion. She never thought; she just did. She killed nine people because it felt right at the time.

Emotions blind you. Revenge is an idiot's game. You have to be able to take a step back. See the whole picture, not just your angle.

So when Scott is near-sobbing that his best friend _almost died_ and _he's in a coma_ and _they don't know if he'll wake up_ , Allison's vision doesn't go dark and blurred. It goes sharp and focused. She narrows her eyes. She breathes.

She says, "Scott, I'm so sorry," because that's what Emotional Allison would say, and Scott needs Emotional Allison right now.

She lets him break. Lets him sob.

Murmurs soft, stupid comforts. Promises she can't keep.

She lets him cry until he stops. Until he takes a breath, lets it out.

Then she says, "Tell me everything."

 

>>>

 

The Hale case hit a dead end, but Mr. Stilinski hunched over the file like it held the secrets of the universe.

Stiles wrote essays, did homework, and handed nothing in. He spent hours on the computer, looking up cures that could have saved her. There was an experimental treatment in Israel, another by the University of Pennsylvania. Another round, a higher dose. Maybe she could have pulled through. Maybe if Stiles'd found this sooner—

Dinner in the Stilinski household became a sack of burgers and milkshakes, with the occasional pizza pie for variety. Sometimes Mrs. McCall would cook something, or send over a salad. Somewhere between Stiles' mom getting sick again and her being gone, a friend had slid into position beside him. Scott McCall, age ten. He thought Stiles was funny, but laughing-with-you funny, not laughing-at-you funny. He didn't want to shut Stiles in a locker. He hated Geometry with a fiery burning passion. He thought it was cool that Stiles didn't. He had asthma, which basically canceled out Stiles' Adderall. His parents fought a lot. He didn't really talk about it, which was fine with Stiles, who didn't really talk about how his mom was dying and the whole world was falling to shit.

They talked about _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , which Stiles'd used to watch with his babysitter, and Marvel comics, and Lydia Martin, who Scott agreed was pretty much perfect, if slightly evil, and promised he'd point in Stiles' direction if he ever, by some miracle of nature, became cool. Similarly, Stiles promised he'd find an awesome girl for Scott if he somehow grew out of his general Stiles-ness and turned into Danny, who everyone always liked immediately. Or an awesome guy, he added, if you want.

Scott shrugged. "I think it's girls for me," he said, and they spit-shook on it, which was gross and awesome.

They ate lunch together, got detention together, avoided discussion of their home lives together. Talked about what life would be like if they ever became popular. They studied together, played Halo together (Scott beat Stiles' ass every time), shared notes (Stiles made two copies of his and a vague, involuntary disapproving noise at Scott's disorganized chicken-scratchings), played lacrosse, geeked out over Harry Potter (Heavily debated topic: Snape- evil, or just an asshole?), and attempted to start a punk/ska/reggae band. (Scott sang terribly; Stiles tried his hand at drums; and Ash, two years older and a pretty cool guy once he took the Rebel With A Cause thing down a notch or six, doing violent and vaguely terrifying things to a guitar; a squabble over potential band names had the three stubbornly not speaking for a week. It was one of the shittiest weeks of Stiles' young life. (He'd still insist that _Testosterone High_ was a cooler name than _Slagging Maggie_ anyday. He could see the album covers mocked-up in his head: Welcome to [band logo], Still On A [band logo]... They didn't even _know_ a Maggie, he'd moan only half-jokingly. Never _had_. And what does slagging even _mean_ , we're not British, we've never used that word in our _lives_...)) The band thing was soon good as forgotten; Stiles' abandoned drum set collected dust in his closet. The hierarchy of jocks and flawless princesses, aka Whittemores and Martins, pressed the two misfits closer together, took their bond from friendship to brotherhood, united against a common enemy (Jackson Whittemore on a good day, Camden Lahey on a painful and humiliating one) and toward a common goal (social acceptance and eventual popularity, through a complicated set of steps triggered by Stiles' hypothetically successful wooing of Lydia Martin through the implementation of the Ten Year Plan™). After a particularly traumatic incident led to a great Revenge Scheme which was impressive and only slightly disturbing and _so_ worth the suspensions and forty weeks of detention it earned the pair of them, Stiles realized that Scott had superhuman amounts of heart inside that pale, wheezy chest, but also plenty of brain, and Scott realized that Stiles had superhuman amounts of brain inside that close-shaved, hyperactive head, but also plenty of heart. It was a very moving moment in their bro-hood. There might have been some tears. Manly tears of testosterone and manliness, of course. And some hugging which definitely crossed the line from "one-armed bro-hug" to "I love you, man, and I don't care if Camden calls me gay. Did you know gay means happy, anyway, and besides, Danny's gay and he's awesome."

It was a very good plan, in any case. Camden pretty much shut up after that. Well, no, he was still an asshole, but he stopped violently assaulting half the student body, which was a definite plus. The little nervous cringe thing he did when he saw either of them was pretty satisfying, too.

"Stiles, if anyone's giving you trouble—" Sheriff Stilinski started, as Stiles tried to pretend he wasn't following his dad's eyeline to the liquor cabinet, and upon failing, tried not to worry too much about taking years off his dad's life.

"Dad, it's nothing, it was just this ass—sorry—anyway, it's over."

"Because I—"

"You're Sheriff, I know," Stiles said, suddenly exhausted.

"Because I'm your father. _Stiles._ If I could get in the middle of you and anything and everything that tried to hurt you I would. If I thought it would help, I swear to god, Stiles?"

Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek and tried not to cry. "I know, Dad."

"C'm'ere."

They hugged it out. Stiles was ten years old, but his father's arms still felt big enough to disappear in.

"I love you, kiddo," John Stilinski said.

"Love you too, Dad."

"You're still grounded."

 

>>>

 

Scott doesn't know much. What he does know is obvious.

He thinks it's a hunter.

He won't say it, but the boy is a terrible liar.

Allison doesn't have time to dance around awkward topics. She dives.

"No claws," she says. "He was stabbed."

"They said—" Scott's close to tears again. "There was so much blood, Allison, I could smell it. I can still smell it."

Werewolf senses can be a bitch that way. Or so Allison's heard.

"It was a knife," Allison clarifies. Emotional Allison's time is over. She can't coddle Scott anymore.

"Y-yeah, they think so. One of those curved ones."

"Bowie."

"I think."

"Good," she says. "That narrows it down. The hunters I know like guns. No need to come close."

She wonders, suddenly, if the thought of her knowing an army of gun-toting hunters scares him. She wonders if she cares.

God, her life.

They talk for less than an hour. Once the few known facts are clear, there's not much left to say. Scott could ramble about his feelings and his fears for hours if Allison let him, but she shuts him down.

Emotions won't help Stiles. Won't keep anyone safe.

She has to talk to Dean.

 

>>>

 

After his mom died, Stiles stopped talking. Scott and his mom stopped by on the second day of shiva, the seven days of sitting on low chairs and talking in low voices about _grief_ and _reasons_ and _she's dead, she's dead, she's dead_. Stiles didn't talk, and Mr. Stilinski was perpetually drunk, the kind of drunk that came with ranting and sobbing in equal measures, the kind that put an ache in Stiles' stomach and panic in his throat. Mrs. McCall sat beside Stiles and wrapped him in a gentle hug, and he hissed something vaguely tearful into her shoulder and ran for his bedroom, where he lay, flat and stiff and barely fidgeting, on his bed. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling and let his eyes empty out.

"Sorry, man," Scott said after Stiles wiped his eyes and headed back to meet his friend in the kitchen, and then he didn't say anything, just stood beside him. And it was something. It wasn't—it wasn't _helpful_ ; she was still gone, and there were still a million strangers in the house, and Dad was wasted and sobbing into a deputy's shoulder. But it was... something. Just... having someone there, and not having to talk.

Everyone else kept trying to make him talk.

 

>>>

 

Dean's in front of the TV, finishing a beer and staring off into middle distance when Allison sits on the couch beside him and asks, "Did you do it together?"

His head snaps up; his eyes focus immediately. Hunter reflexes. She knew that. She must have always known that, even if she couldn't admit it to herself.

He relaxes in moments, breaks into a grin, shaking his head. "Alli. What're you tryin' to do, scare me to death? I could'a killed you!"

"You couldn't have," Allison says.

Dean chuckles fondly. "Maybe. I haven't seen you in action, but if you're anything like your aunt—"

"I'm not," Allison snaps. Dean's already flushing, the humor gone from his eyes.

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care," Allison says. "I'm nothing like her."

Dean's her favorite uncle. One of her favorite people in the whole world. That doesn't give him the _right_.

"Of course not," Dean says, and finishes his beer in one long slug.

"Did you?" Allison didn't come downstairs to watch Dean's lips curl around a bottle. Not that she hasn't considered it, but she's had enough Kate comparisons without adding _dating Dean Winchester_ to the list. Besides, she has a boyfriend. Sort of. And more importantly, she has questions. "Did you hunt together?"

Dean doesn't even flinch. He sets the empty bottle down. Pulls a metal flask out from under his leather jacket.

"Nah. She'd never allow it." He unscrews the cap, takes a pull. Grimaces, then smacks his lips. Breathes. "Y'don't shit where you eat."

"Did you know?" Allison presses on. "About the fire. What she did."

"We didn't talk about the job." Dean screws the cap back again. "We weren't—Alli. We weren't just two hunters, shacking up because it was convenient. We were just people. We liked each other. I liked her, anyway. Maybe loved her, even, as if I know what the fuck love is. She had this great smile, y'know? Like she knew a joke you didn't. Always one step ahead. Nice tits, too." A smirk lights his face for a moment.

"Dean," Allison spits, disgusted.

"Always got a plan. She was just unstoppable, y'know? Fuckin' unstoppable. She was a fucking force of nature, and I loved it." He's drunk, rambling. "So maybe I should've realized the love of my life was a fucking homicidal maniac. Maybe I should've known that." He unscrews the cap again. His fingers are careful, controlled. It only takes him one try. "We didn't talk about the job. She trusted me not to fuck up, and I trusted her." A small, bitter huff of laughter escapes him. "Guess we both fucked up there."

"Would you—" Allison forces the words out, heart clanging against her ribs. "If you'd known, you would have stopped her. You would've—"

"I don't know, Alli, okay?" He sighs at the look on her face, like she doesn't have a right to be horrified at that. "That's God's honest truth. I don't know what I would've done. All I know is right now I'm sick to my stomach and most days I can barely—" He unscrews the flask again, chugs until he has to tip his head back to catch the last few drops. "I don't have the answers for you, a'right? I wish I did. God, Alli, I wish I had all the friggin answers. I wish my dead girlfriend wasn't a fucking psychopath. I wish this shit had never touched your life at all. You can't get away from it, you realize that? Once you're in, you're in till you're dead. " He pockets the empty flask; his hand trembles slightly. "The plan was to keep you out of it."

_Protect the little girl. Of course._

If there's one thing Allison can't make herself hate her aunt for, it's the way Kate treated her like an actual person instead of some delicate princess Barbie. God, everyone would just love to shove her in a corner and have some giant idiotic pissing contest for her hand or the her eternal servitude or something.

Not Kate. Kate understood. Kate was the only one who understood.

And that scares Allison to death.

"You can't rewind and fix it," she says, cutting off her pseudo-uncle's depressing monologue before the instrumental track can kick in. "Stop whining about things you can't change."

His eyes flicker shock and shame, with a side of _well fuck you too_ , and he closes them, hikes up his brow.

"So how's it work?" Allison rushes on. "You hunt alone, right? What if you need back-up?"

"Back-up means I have to rely on someone else not to get me killed," Dean says, still a little pissy. Maybe when this is all over—if this can ever be over—Allison'll take the time to hold his hand and let him braid her hair and throw a tea party or whatever the fuck he expects of her. "Means I'm worried about having to save some other son of a bitch's ass when I need to focus on the job. I hunt alone. I don't do anything stupid."

"Like burn nine people alive."

"Will you shut—" Dean inhales sharply. "Jesus, Allison, can you drop the third degree? What d'ya want?"

It takes a while for Allison to figure out how to start.

 

>>>

 

Scott was the first one to get Stiles laughing again. It wasn't a mind-blowingly funny joke, but it hit something that hadn't been hit in too long, and Stiles laughed. Not a full-bodied, open-mouthed, head-rocked-back laugh, but a grin, and a little huff of amusement. And Scott grinned too, and Stiles knew they were gonna be best friends forever.

The suspension meant Stiles was back with his age group at age eleven, but he didn't protest as much as he could have. Sure, he was backtracking, jumping from fourth to seventh and now backwards to sixth, but Scott was there, and Stiles tended to be bored out of his mind in the most advanced classes, anyway. He exchanged notes and comments with Scott, landing both of them in detention way too many times. Panic attacks and nightmares were balanced by the constant unwavering presence of Scott, who spent more and more time at the Stilinski home as his parents' fighting got worse. Somehow the year came and went without major incident, and Stiles got his humor back, and seventh grade, take two, looked like the perfect way to make up for the first go around.

Then, in November, Dad had his first heart attack.

 

>>>

 

Scott picks up on the fourth ring.

"I can't come into work for a few days," he says before Deaton can say anything. "It's—Someone—Stiles is in the hospital, he's been _stabbed_ , and they don't know—"

"We need to talk," Deaton says, infuriatingly calm as ever.

"I'm telling you, I'm _busy_ ," Scott clarifies. "You can dock my pay. Whatever. I need—"

"What you need is for you and I to have a conversation," Deaton interrupts smoothly. "About Stiles. I made a promise long ago, and I intend to keep it."

"Wait, what?" Scott pauses to replay this in his head and see if it makes more sense the second time. It doesn't. "What do you mean, long ago? About Stiles? What are you talking about?" His eyes widen. "Do you know something about this? Do you know who did it?"

"No," Deaton says patiently. Scott deflates. "But I've been trusted with some information about his... condition. Your friend will need you more than ever to help him... adjust."

"He's got me," Scott says instantly. It's stupid that Deaton thinks he has to ask. It's kind of insulting, actually. "He knows that."

"It's not that simple," Deaton says. "You see, Scott, there's a very particular-"

There's a sudden cacophony over the line as what sounds like every animal in the clinic starts barking, howling, whining, or growling at once. "My office," Deaton says, barely audible over the rucks. "You can visit Stiles, but I expect you here immediately afterward."

"What do you want?" Scott demands, but the animals are still going nuts and Scott doubts Deaton can hear him over their alarm. He hasn't heard them this distressed since Peter's visit. "What's going on?"

The instinct comes, well, instinctively. One second he's pressing his boss for details, the next he's snapping, "Calm down!"

The line goes quiet so suddenly Scott is almost sure he accidentally hung up or something. Only the sounds of muffled conversation keep Scott from attempting a redial.

"—while I'm on the phone, Maya!" Deaton hisses.

"I just think you should—"

"Scott," Deaton interrupts Maya, whoever she is. "That was very impressive. I've never heard a Beta establish dominance over the phone before."

"Great," Scott says flatly. "Does this mean I can miss a couple days of work?"

"I expect you here," Deaton says humorlessly. "We have a lot to talk about."

"About Stiles," Scott recaps. "And some long-ago promise. To who? You moved here after I did!"

"Actually, Scott, I grew up in Beacon Hills," Deaton says. There's something almost fond in his tone, completely undermining his mysterious/dramatic act. "I left for the same reason I came back."

"For Stiles?" 

"No," Deaton says. "For his mother." 

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my ff.net account. The title is a lyric from the Mountain Goats song "High Hawk Season."
> 
> Tumblr: nooneinherrightmind


End file.
